by S M Briscoe
The wasted moon had eluded all forms of technological colonization, and not for any lack of trying. Terraformers had long ago set up atmospheric processing stations to create a suitable environment for habitation, introducing plant and wildlife, but the stubborn rock had resisted almost all of it. Numerous mining corporations had attempted to harvest whatever value could be had from the land over the centuries, all of which having suffered the same fate, finding little purchase, and eventually being swallowed up by the unforgiving climate.
Finally, all attempts to mine or colonize the moon had been abandoned, and now with only a handful of outposts spread out over its surface, it had become a little known, out of the way spaceport for smugglers to rest and refuel in privacy, without having to worry about any planetary authorities or the Sect Dominion, the system’s overbearing and militant governing entity.
Jarred could appreciate that there were still some havens left that would remain free from sentient interference and industrialization. This moon actually repelled it and that thought gave him some comfort. He had spent much of his life, or as much as he could recall of it, in places just like it, if not geologically similar, at least alike in their isolation from the so called civilized world, so it only made sense that he would feel most at home and comfortable in them.
As he continued to watch the barren terrain roll by far beneath him, his mind involuntarily drifted back to those earlier times in his life, the closest thing to an adolescence he had ever known. The memories he did have were fond ones, at least for the most part, but only served to remind him of what he had worked so hard to leave behind. A past that was fraught with missing pieces and unanswered questions. A void in his mind as dark and vast as the universe itself, and the constant torment it inflicted upon him when left unchecked. And yet, though he had moved on in an attempt to forge a new life for himself; one of his own choosing; the questions still managed to plague him, when he allowed them to rise back to the surface of his consciousness, which was not something he was in the habit of doing. On the contrary, he had become quite adept at ignoring them. He had, with much effort, armored himself against their influence. Odd that something so simple, as a vaguely familiar landscape, could break through all of those defenses.
Feeling the all too familiar surge of emotions that always accompanied such thoughts, he reflexively shook the reminiscence from his mind, and as quickly as the memories, or lack there of, had arisen they were buried once more. Safely hidden away, in the dark recesses of his mind, where they could not be a burden to him. Such sentiments were counterproductive and dwelling on the past was a distraction he could not afford, especially in his current line of work.
Bounty hunting wasn’t the safest or most lucrative of trades, but if you were any good at it, there were decent credits to be made. Most contracts were open to all members of the Hunter’s Guild, which helped to expedite the process for the client through shear headcount. It also served to intensify an already highly competitive market, making it harder and harder for the average hunter to scrape in a living. When a contract came around you either outworked and outsmarted the competition, or you starved. If you were lucky and had established a decent reputation in the marketplace, you could find independent contractual work, which meant you didn’t need to worry about the competition stealing your bounties out from under you. Jarred’s particular skill set had allowed him to establish that kind of reputation and consequently, he had done alright for himself. It wasn’t a glamorous life, but he wasn’t interested in notoriety or prestige. He just wanted to make his own way.
Refocusing his thoughts on the task at hand, Jarred glanced over his ship’s navigational readouts, though few of them were in working order anymore. Cobbled together from the parts of many different vessels; it’s original make was lost beneath layers of rebuilds and modifications, most of which having occurred before the ship had come into his possession; he was sometimes surprised it functioned at all. It’s compact frame identified it to scanners as a scout class freighter, which had probably been the vessel’s original purpose, that small stature making it ideal for quick courier runs, as opposed to heavy load cartages. It was faster and more maneuverable than it’s larger counterparts, while still allowing it to pass for a cargo vessel to bystanders. A helpful cover when his objectives were usually on the lookout for him. Lately, that seemed about all the dilapidated vessel was good for. He had to admit the old ship had seen better days. Pretty soon all the spare parts in the system wouldn’t keep her in the air.
That sad thought was replaced with relief as Jarred saw his destination’s landing beacon registering on the heads up display, one of the few instruments that did still function properly. He looked out his front viewport and spotted the faint, artificial glow coming from the installation that was just now becoming visible in the distance.
It was a small, out of the way outpost, even by Isyss’ standards, one that Jarred had never personally docked at before, not that he was expecting it to be any different from the countless others he had been to. He put the ship into a slow descent, angling for the hollowed out crater the station had been built into. To better conceal its presence from those who didn’t already know of it, he assumed, as he hovered over the ridge of the cliff wall. Comprised of dozens of tightly spaced low rise buildings, none rising more than a couple of stories, he was easily able to discern the pedestrian walkways that divided the clustered structures, all of the main arteries packed with hundreds of clamoring beings. Humans, more accurately, as this particular outpost was used almost exclusively by his race. Immediately spotting the station’s docking ring, a large circular walled in structure in the center of the compound, he altered his vector to make a landing.
Docking stations like this usually went unnoticed by the average traveler, especially on a moon such as this, serving for the most part as stopping points for smugglers and shiploads of refugees. This low profile quality had a tendency to attract the type of traveler who preferred his or her whereabouts remain unknown.
Unfortunately for one of those travelers, Jarred Archer excelled at finding those who didn’t wish to be.
* * *
Ethan Bishop watched, with his neck craned back, as a large cargo freighter hovered by overhead, it’s overworked and under maintained engines sputtering and whining in protest as it slowly descended towards Wasteland Station’s centralized docking ring. He brushed his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes, while at the same time guarding them from a gust of thruster backwash that sent dust clouds rolling up from the ped-way in the freighter’s passing wake. He blinked away the stinging dust particles, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the dilapidated metal heap as it crept down into the docking ring, it’s upper portion still remaining visible above the ring’s high barrier wall as it touched down heavily. He listened for the distinctive sound of the large vessel’s decompression valves firing, followed by the mixed drone and rumble of the repulsers and engines dying down. He had the audible sequences timed almost perfectly in his mind and probably could have queued them off without having been in hearing range. He was proud of that fact.
As long as he could remember, he had been fascinated by anything that had the ability to fly through air or space. There were few vessel classes or models he couldn’t name by sight, or even by sound in some cases, from personal transports and freighters to military warships and fighters. He imagined the freedom of being behind the controls of such a craft, even one as rusted and bulky as the one he had just been watching. He had been a passenger on many like it, though always crammed tightly into the cargo hold with as many other refugees as could be fit, so had never seen the sky from great heights as he soared through it, watched the land role by far below him, or seen the stars from the blackness of space. He longed for those things and dreamed of little else. To fly far away, and leave the life of a refugee far behind him.
Ethan felt a hand grip his arm firmly and was shaken from his thoughts. He glanced up to see the annoyed expression o
n the face of his older sister, Elora, as she stared back down at him. He knew the look well, having seen it directed at him on a regular basis over the last twelve years of his life. More than ten years his senior, she was closer to a mother figure than a sister, a fact she was also acutely aware of, as she seemed to have embraced the role with a vigor that was thoroughly aggravating.
“Come on, Ethan,” she ordered, giving him a yank forward as they worked their way through the crowds of refugees that filled the streets of the outpost, all slowly flocking towards the docking ring. “Stop daydreaming. Pay attention to where you’re going.”
“I wasn’t daydreaming,” he replied. “I was . . .”
“I know exactly what you were doing,” she cut in, before he could complete his excuse, nodding towards the docking ring. “It would really help me out if you could manage to keep your head out of the clouds and your feet on the ground for next little while so I can find a way to get us off this rock.”
They had arrived at the outpost only a few hours earlier, the refugee freighter they had bought passage onto breaking down just short of its intended destination, Trycon City, on the large Turausian moon, Solta. They had been forced to land here for repairs. Shortly after touching down, the pilot announced that the damage was more severe than originally suspected and that repairs would not be possible. Suddenly stranded, their situation had gone from hopeful to dire.
Ethan had never been to a city like Trycon before. According to Elora, they were going to make a home there. A real home. Looking around at his current surroundings, he couldn’t imagine what that would be like. Having experienced little else in his life, he had grown accustomed to the dingy, unwelcoming holes of the universe. He wasn’t even sure how he would take to something better.
With no transport off world, Elora’s plan was to barter their way onto another vessel, but with no credits left to bargain with, that was going to be a tall order here. These kinds of outpost’s didn’t usually attract the most charitable of folks. Of course, there were always ways around that. He and his sister had been to more places like this than he could count, thus, he had developed a certain working knowledge of life on the move, learning from early on that, being a refugee, you had to take what you could get.
As they wove through another crowd, Ethan bumped into a man heading in the opposite direction.
“Oh, sorry,” he apologized, receiving little more than an annoyed grunt from the man as he continued on his way. Smirking to himself, Ethan held his newly acquired wallet up for inspection, exploring its contents as he continued walking. He glanced up to find Elora looking back at him again.
“Where did you get that?” she inquired, suspiciously, glancing down at the wallet.
“I found it,” Ethan responded, his tone defensive, but from his sister’s reaction, not very convincing.
Elora frowned. “Didn’t I tell you to stop doing that? One of these times you’re going to get us both in a lot of trouble.”
Ethan braced himself for yet another of his sister’s many scoldings, but they were interrupted by the booming voice of an old man who was standing up over the crowds, shouting out to all the passersby.
Waving his hands vehemently, the old preacher called out to anyone who would listen. “Repent, for darkness is falling upon us! The end is coming!”
Ethan stared at the man, curiously. He had also seen more than enough of these sorts of odd jobs. Most out of the way outposts, remote colonies or just the average city sprawl tended to have their share of mental unstables.
As if detecting his eyes on him, the preacher’s gaze suddenly turned to Ethan. “Young one,” he began, his voice growing eerily calm. “Do you see it? The end approaches. They are coming for us!”
Elora grabbed Ethan by the arm, pulling him in her direction. “Don’t listen to him, Ethan.”
Ethan continued looking back at the preacher while walking forward, the old man continuing to stare at him awhile before finally looking back to the crowds.
“The end is coming!” he cried again. “The wrath of the Dark Ones is upon us! Repent!”
Ethan’s attention remained focused on the old man as his sister yanked him through another tightly packed group of refugees. In the midst of the chaotic traffic he felt her grip on his arm falter and as he turned to catch back up to her he bumped hard into some other passerby.
“Sorry,” he apologized, quickly. His immediate instinct, as it had developed, had him reaching into the stranger’s dark cloak as he tried to squeeze by. Instead of a wallet or anything else worth taking, he was suddenly surprised to feel the grip of the man’s hand on his own, removing it from his cloak. Jumping, Ethan looked up nervously at the darkly clad stranger, who turned to stare back down at him, his face partially shrouded by his hood.
“There’s nothing in there for you,” the stranger warned, releasing Ethan’s hand and returning his attention to where it had apparently been before, on a tavern across the street.
Ethan backed away, watching as the dark stranger strode off towards the tavern and disappeared inside.
“Ethan!” Elora called out to him from a short distance ahead. “Come on! Do I have to watch you constantly?”
Still looking back at the tavern, his curiosity peaked, Ethan turned to follow his sister again.
* * *
The tavern was indicative of what Jarred would expect to find in an outpost such as this. Being a stopping point for smugglers, thieves and the occasional mass of fleeing refugees, Wasteland Station would inevitably attract its fair share of shady characters, making an establishment like this one a hub for the criminally inclined. And judging by the smell of the place, the customers probably hadn’t come for the food.
He moved from the entrance of the tavern, walking alongside the bar, which stretched across the length of the establishment, receiving glances from the occasional patron as he went. Taking a seat on one of the bar stools, he waited quietly, waving off the approaching barkeep.
Looking over his shoulder, Jarred peered across the bar and took in the man he had come here for, a young woman perched on his lap. It had taken him two weeks to finally track Mac Keplar down, not that the man had seemed to be trying to hide at all. He was just constantly on the move, jumping from world to world, outpost to outpost. Jarred had missed him two days earlier at a mid-space docking facility, by literally only a couple of hours. The fact that Mac probably didn’t even know that he was evading capture so well frustrated Jarred more than how much time and effort he had expended in tracking him down. But he had him now and this time he wouldn’t be slipping through his fingers. All that was left was to go and collect him.
Mac was a relatively small man in stature, harmless looking really, not that that meant anything. Jarred knew from experience that appearances could and usually would be deceiving, but it was not his direct quarry that concerned him. By reputation Mac was known for avoiding violent confrontations, more inclined to bargain or cheat his way out of any sticky situation.
No, he would not be the problem. The large trio of men that surrounded Mac at the table would be. He observed the three in a glance, noting that one was left handed and all were carrying holstered weapons. None appeared to be all that bright though, positioning themselves randomly around their table, Mac however, sitting in a spot that would allow him full view of everything happening in the establishment. He was obviously the only thinker of the group. The others were simply muscle. But simple or not, they were three and Jarred was only one. In addition to that, he assumed most of the tavern’s patrons would also be carrying firearms and he doubted any of them would take kindly to a violent confrontation in their midst, least of all one brought on by a bounty hunter intruding on their turf. He would have to choose his next move carefully, and more importantly, it would have to make a statement.
Jarred turned back to the bar, preparing himself for the task ahead. He would have to be quick.
* * *
“Please, we’re desperate!”
>
Elora Bishop stood, pleading with an aging freighter pilot she had seen leaving one of the docking bays in, what she considered to be, one of the slimiest outposts she had ever had the displeasure of finding herself stranded in.
She had been scouring the compound for pilots with a ship of any kind, in the hope of bargaining her way into a ride to any place that wasn’t this place. The old pilot, who almost seemed to sympathize with her predicament, had been the first to actually take the time to hear her out, though it was obvious to her now that he was quickly losing interest. Nevertheless, he was the best hope she’d had of getting passage out of here thus far, so she continued to beseech upon what she hoped was the man’s good nature.
“Can’t do it for nothing,” the old pilot replied, shaking his head apologetically, while at the same time trying to walk away. “I’m sorry.”
Stopping him, Elora continued to plead. “I told you, we don’t have any money, but . . . we can work for our passage.”
The pilot shook his head. “I don’t have any work for a woman and a small boy.” He scratched his head, letting out a long breath. “A refugee freighter just landed in the ring. If you don’t have any money, why don’t you just try it?”
“We came in on that freighter,” she began quickly. “It broke down. The pilot said something about the drive unit failing.”
“The cooling unit,” Ethan interrupted from behind her.
Both Elora and the pilot stopped to glance back at her younger brother.
“He said the drive was overheating,” Ethan continued, sounding a bit annoyed. “That means the cooling unit broke down.”
“Whatever,” Elora said, returning her attention to the old pilot. “The freighter broke down and the pilot said it wasn’t worth the credits to get it repaired, so he cut his losses and bought his way out of here on another transport.”
